The Illness
by dustnik
Summary: Set in 1924. Thomas becomes very ill, and Andy is concerned.
1. Chapter 1

**Day 1**

Thomas Barrow hated being ill. It made him feel fragile and weak. So on that gloomy day in early November when he awoke with a fever and a sore throat, he was determined to soldier on. He made his way downstairs to breakfast fighting a headache and a pesky cough. A bowl of thick porridge was placed before him, and out of habit rather than hunger, he reached for a slice of toast.

The talk in the servants' hall that morning was centered on the upstairs dinner party scheduled for that evening. Mr. Carson was giving instructions to Molesley and the new footman, Andrew. Thomas heard his booming voice as though through a thick blanket of fog. "I expect everyone to carry their weight tonight. That includes you too, Mr. Barrow." The butler frowned. "Mr. Barrow?"

Thomas looked up, aware that everyone was staring expectantly at him. "I'm sorry, Mr. Carson. What were you saying?"

"Hmm." The butler pursed his lips in annoyance.

From across the table, Miss Baxter fixed Thomas with a look of concern. "Your color is up. Are you feeling all right?"

"Yes, thank you," he assured her hoarsely.

The housekeeper turned to him. "You've hardly eaten a bite. Maybe you're coming down with a cold."

"I'm perfectly fine, Mrs. Hughes. I'm simply not hungry."

Carson frowned again. "Time to get to work, I think." The staff dispersed, the lady's maids bringing up breakfast trays for Lady Grantham and Lady Mary, and the men carrying covered dishes to the dining room for the others.

"You really don't look very good, Mr. Barrow," Andy observed.

"Well," Thomas corrected him.

The footman looked puzzled. "Well, what?"

Thomas smiled indulgently. "Never mind."

Later, he was sent into the village to attend to several errands for the family. He had hoped the walk might do him good, but the day was cold and damp, and a stinging rain was beginning to fall. He turned up his collar against the icy wind and trudged on, his fevered head bowed.

His first stop was to the menders to retrieve His Lordship's riding boots that had been in need of repair. He explained his mission to the little man behind the counter who squeaked, "I'll fetch them for you straight away, sir."

"Take your time." Thomas was in no hurry to leave the warmth of the shop, but a minute later, the man returned with a box containing the boots. The underbutler paid the bill, waiting for the carefully written receipt.

Once again, he stepped out into the cold rain. He posted a parcel with Mrs. Wigan, the Downton postmistress. The woman was grumbling to someone in the back, probably the long-suffering Mr. Wigan, and didn't pay him much mind.

His last stop was to the chemist's to pick up a sleeping draft for Her Ladyship. After that, he was free to nip into the pub and was greeted by the proprietor. "The usual, Mr. Barrow?"

"Just tea today, George."

As the barman set the cup in front of him, he commented, "If you don't mind my saying, you don't look too good."

"So I've been told." Thomas steeled himself for the long trek back to the Abbey. Upon arriving, he hurried upstairs to remove his wet things and dry himself off. He desperately longed to rest but was determined to carry on.

At luncheon, he managed to swallow a few bites, but mostly he just pushed the food around his plate hoping that no one would notice. He caught Andy staring up at him and fixed him with a wan smile. Next, he joined Mr. Carson, Molesley, and Andy to serve the upstairs lunch. He was about to take in the salmon when he heard Carson hiss under his breath, "Where is the dill sauce for that?"

Thomas looked at him blankly before asking, "Does it have a sauce?"

Carson's bushy eyebrows drew together in exasperation. "What is the matter with you today?"

Andy approached the two men and quickly piped up. "I've got the sauce right here, Mr. Carson. Mr. Barrow told me to bring it up."

Carson flashed him a look of annoyance before turning back to the underbutler. "Well, get on with it then before it gets cold." He moved off to begin pouring the wine.

Thomas turned to the footman. "Thanks, Andy, but you shouldn't have done that. You don't need a black mark in Mr. Carson's book."

"That's alright. You've covered for me lots of times."

The afternoon wore on slowly with Thomas feeling increasingly worse. Before the guests arrived, he brought the measuring stick to the dining room to check that everything had been laid out properly. When he got to the last place setting, he pulled out the chair and gently lowered himself down. He heard a voice from behind him say, "Don't let Mr. Carson catch you." Andy promptly entered with a look of concern. "Why don't you just tell him?"

"Tell him what?" Thomas asked wearily.

"That you're ill, of course. He'd understand."

"Would he?" Thomas smiled ruefully. He pulled himself slowly to his feet. "I'd better get on."

Finally, evening came, and the dinner guests began to arrive. Thomas relieved them of their coats while Mr. Carson ushered them into the drawing room. If he could only make it through this wretched dinner, he could go upstairs and rest. He was sure he would feel better in the morning after a good night's sleep. Thomas pressed his forehead against the stone mantelpiece in the great hall. The cold helped to soothe his raging fever. He became aware of a tall figure standing beside him. It was Andy on his way to the drawing room balancing a tray full of colorful cocktails. "Are you sure you shouldn't be in bed, Mr. Barrow?"

There were crimson slashes along the underbutler's high, sharp cheekbones. "I'm fine," he replied shakily.

"You're sweating."

"Am I? I guess I'm standing too close to the fire." Thomas forced a broad smile. "You'd better get in there with those drinks."

The footman nodded and continued on his way.

Dinner was soon announced, and Thomas was about to serve the white wine. He clutched the sideboard trying to steady himself before making his way around the table with the crystal decanter in hand. He bumped into the chair of one of the guests, earning him an angry glare from Mr. Carson. He looked over to see Molesley and Andy watching him curiously too. Suddenly, the room began to spin and from somewhere, Thomas heard the sound of breaking glass. The floor seemed to be rising up to meet him, and then everything went black.

* * *

He opened his eyes to see Miss Baxter gazing down on him. "How do you feel?" she asked him.

Thomas slowly became aware that he was lying upstairs on his bed. "What happened?"

"You fainted while you were serving dinner."

"I fainted?" He was horrified. "How did I get here?"

"Andy and Mr. Molesley carried you up. Why didn't you say you were ill? Mr. Carson would have excused you."

 _Carson._ "I suppose he's furious."

The lady's maid fixed him with a wry smile.

Thomas added bitterly, "It must have given everybody below stairs a good laugh anyway."

"Of course not. Everyone is terribly concerned. You're running a very high temperature." She rested a worried hand on his forehead. "Do you need help changing into your pajamas? I can ask a hallboy to come up."

"No, I can manage," he answered with more confidence than he felt.

"I'll bring up a tray with your dinner."

"Don't bother. I'm not hungry."

"Well, I'll let you get some sleep then. Hopefully, you'll feel better in the morning."

"I'm sure I will. Goodnight."

She smiled again and exited the room, closing the door softly behind her. Thomas struggled slowly into his pajamas and climbed into bed. He slept fitfully, his rest broken with fevered dreams.


	2. Chapter 2

**Day 2**

The next morning, he was awakened by a knock on his door, and Andy shuffled in. "How are you feeling today, Mr. Barrow?"

Thomas turned toward him and watched the footman take a step back in alarm. "Apparently, not as bad as I look," he replied acidly.

"It's your face. You've got some kind of rash."

"What?" He pulled himself out of bed and padded unsteadily to the glass. Sure enough, he was covered with ugly, red spots.

Andy came nearer. "I know what that is. You've got chickenpox."

"Chickenpox?" He scratched at a spot on his cheek.

"You must have gotten it from the children."

Thomas staggered back to bed. "Aren't you afraid of getting it?"

"No, I had it when I was little. We all did. My poor mum was run off her feet taking care of us."

He scratched at his jaw. "How long does it last?"

"At least a week, longer until all the scabs fall off, but you can't scratch them, or they'll scar."

"I guess I'd better tell Mr. Carson and get it over with."

Andy shook his head. "No, you stay in bed. I'll tell him." He turned to look back before exiting. "Stop scratching!"

Thomas was grateful. He wasn't up to facing the butler's wrath. He waited until everyone had gone downstairs before making a trek to the bathroom. The exertion tired him, and he promptly fell back to sleep.

* * *

Dr. Clarkson left Thomas' room to find Mrs. Hughes waiting patiently downstairs. "Well, it's definitely chickenpox alright."

"Isn't he a bit old for that?"

"He obviously didn't have it as a boy. He must have caught it from the children here."

"So it's not too serious then?"

"It's much worse in adults, I'm afraid, especially men. The real danger is pneumonia setting in, and I know Thomas is a heavy smoker."

"What can we do to help?"

"Keep his temperature down with aspirin, and make sure he drinks plenty of fluids. I'll check on him again tomorrow."

"Thank you, doctor."

* * *

Andy brought up a breakfast tray with toast and jam and a pot of tea. He set the tray on Thomas' lap and proceeded to pour. The underbutler pulled himself up to a sitting position and managed a weak smile. "You might make a decent footman yet."

"Thanks to you."

Thomas took a small bite of the toast. It felt like sandpaper going down his throat. He set it back on the plate and scratched furiously at his broad chest. The itch was maddening. "I think it's spreading."

"If you don't stop scratching, we'll have to make you wear mittens like the children."

"How did Mr. Carson take the news?"

"You know how he is," Andy dissembled. "His bark is worse than his bite."

"I'm not so sure of that." Barrow took a sip of tea before pushing the tray away.

Andy frowned. "Are you done?"

"I'm not hungry." Actually, he felt rather nauseated. He changed the subject. "Thanks for carrying me upstairs last night. I know it couldn't have been easy."

"I may be skinny, but I'm strong, and Mr. Molesley helped too. Do you remember what happened?"

Thomas shook his head. "One minute I was pouring wine, and the next I was lying here."

The footman explained. "You dropped the decanter, and your eyes rolled back in your head. Then you just sort of collapsed in a heap."

Barrow cringed, imagining the chaos that must have ensued.

"Why didn't you just say you were ill?" Upon receiving no answer, the younger man grinned knowingly. "You didn't want to give the others the satisfaction."

Thomas smiled weakly at him. "Something like that." He was feeling terribly tired. "I think I need to sleep now."

Andy nodded an understanding and left with the tray.

He awoke from his nap feeling much worse. He opened his pajama top and saw that his entire chest was covered with itchy red bumps too. There was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Hughes appeared with a bottle of aspirin and a small pitcher of water. She gasped at the sight of his marked face and torso as he hurriedly struggled to button his top. "My goodness, you do have it bad," she observed sympathetically. "Dr. Clarkson said you're to drink a lot of fluids and take aspirin for the fever." She handed him a couple of tablets and a full glass of water. "Here you go."

Thomas took the tablets from her with a shaky hand and put them in his mouth. The housekeeper brought the glass to his lips and lifted his head to help him drink. He managed to swallow them, although his throat was very sore, while she continued pouring the clear liquid into him. "You have to drink it all, Mr. Barrow." He was too weak to argue but could only manage to finish half of it. She refilled the glass and left it on his night table along with the pitcher. "Can I get you anything else?"

He shook his head. "No, thank you."

"I'll leave you then."

After she'd gone, Thomas padded clumsily across the room to retrieve the small rubbish bin from the corner and placed it beside his bed. No sooner had he sat back down, when he unceremoniously vomited into it. He groaned and lay down again, staring up at the attic ceiling. He really did feel dreadful.

That evening, Andy brought up a tray with the underbutler's dinner. Thomas managed a few bites before pushing the food away. "At least, drink your tea," the footman insisted.

"You sound like Mrs. Hughes."

"I want you to get better. It's no fun downstairs with only Mr. Molesley to talk to. How do you feel?"

"Pretty bad."

* * *

Andy perched beside Thomas' bed, gazing down at the ailing man. He noted that the spots were beginning to blister.

Nearly an hour passed before the patient awoke. "What time is it?"

"It's late, Mr. Barrow. I just wanted to see if you needed anything."

"That was kind of you."

"It's the least I can do. Without you, I wouldn't even have this job."

"I'm not sure I did you any favor there."

Andy chuckled. He was happy to see that the underbutler hadn't lost his sense of humor.

Barrow's eyes began to close. "You should get to bed now. Six o'clock comes around awfully early."

"Are you trying to get rid of me?"

Thomas mumbled a sleepy, "Please yourself," before drifting off again.

Andy remained in his chair, determined to be on hand in case the patient wanted anything during the night. Soon, the young footman's eyelids grew heavy, and he too nodded off. He was startled awake when Thomas began to thrash about wildly, throwing off the blankets. Andy laid a hand on his forehead. He felt like he was on fire. The thought of waking Mr. Carson briefly crossed Andy's mind, but he knew if he disturbed the curmudgeonly butler unnecessarily, he would be the one in need of medical attention—and a new job. If only he could fetch Mrs. Hughes or Miss Baxter. They would know what ought to be done, but they were tucked away on the other side of the connecting door.

Thomas peered up at Andy. "Jimmy, is that you? I knew you hadn't forgotten me."

"Uh—I'll be right back." Andy hurried to the bathroom, soaked a small hand towel in cold water, and wrung it out. He returned to Thomas and dabbed his face and neck with it. The footman remembered his mother doing that when he was ill as a boy. It seemed to soothe the sleeping man, and he became quiet once more.


	3. Chapter 3

**Day 3**

The next morning, Dr. Clarkson returned to see Thomas. The underbutler was now covered in blisters and newly emerging spots from head to toe, and his temperature was still dangerously high. After a brief examination, the worried-looking doctor joined Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson downstairs. "How is he today?" the housekeeper asked anxiously.

"I'm afraid he isn't doing as well as I'd hoped. His fever is still much too high."

"We can't get him to eat or drink a thing."

Dr. Clarkson explained. "The chickenpox is in his mouth, causing painful sores."

"Oh, my," Mrs. Hughes spoke sympathetically.

Not surprisingly, Carson was less sympathetic. "When will he be able to return to his duties?"

The doctor shrugged. "That's hard to say exactly. It will take up to a week for the blisters to crust over, and it will take another week or so until all the scabs fall off. You won't want him waiting at table before then, and of course, he won't be able to shave."

Mr. Carson's large nose wrinkled in disgust.

"The marks can take weeks or even months to fade."

"But they will fade?" Mrs. Hughes asked with concern. "He's always been such a handsome man."

Carson turned to face her, his bushy eyebrows raised in astonishment.

"Well, he is," the woman insisted.

The doctor smiled. "Yes, they'll fade as long as he doesn't cause an infection by scratching them. The real danger is still the chance of pneumonia setting in. Call my office if he gets any worse."

"Thank you, doctor." The housekeeper called to Andy who was listening outside the door. "Andy, please show Dr. Clarkson out."

"Yes, Mrs. Hughes," the footman replied, embarrassed at having been caught out. When the two men were alone, he turned to the doctor. "Will Mr. Barrow be alright?"

"It's too soon to say."

"Last night, he didn't know who I was."

"It's the fever, Andy."

"Is there anything I can do to help him?"

Dr. Clarkson gazed up at the young footman curiously. "Is he a particular friend of yours?"

"He's been good to me since I came here. And the other men … " He shook his head and left the sentence unfinished.

"It's good of you to care. Mr. Barrow could certainly use a friend."

At noon, Andy brought up a lunch tray to the ailing underbutler who simply waved it aside. "You should try to eat something, Mr. Barrow. It might make you feel better."

Thomas didn't reply.

Andy was alarmed at the change in the other man's appearance. His flushed, blistered face, wore a thin sheen of sweat. His hair flopped loosely down on his forehead, and he was sporting a two-day growth of stubble. Andy fought to keep his voice light. "I like the beard. You should ask Mr. Carson if you can keep it."

That elicited a small smile from Thomas.

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

"My back," Thomas whispered. "I can't reach it."

The footman's brow furrowed before he understood. "You want me to scratch it for you?"

Thomas nodded and slowly rolled onto his side.

Andy scraped his fingernails back and forth between the man's blistered shoulders, moving lower to cover his entire back. He could feel the intense heat of the fever through the thin fabric of the pajamas. "How's that?"

"Thanks."

"I'd better go before Mr. Carson comes up looking for me." He fixed the underbutler with one last look of concern before exiting.

* * *

Miss Baxter came up that afternoon and took a seat beside the bed. "How are you feeling, Mr. Barrow?"

Thomas gazed up at her in pained silence.

"Everyone is terribly worried about you. Even Her Ladyship asked after you today."

"Sorry," Thomas mumbled.

She looked confused. "What are you sorry about?"

"How I treated you—when you first came."

"I thought we'd gotten past all that. Why are you bringing it up now?"

"Am I a bad person?"

"Of course not," she assured him tenderly. "You're just afraid to let people see the good in you."

Thomas seemed to consider her words.

"I brought up the newspaper. Do you want me to read it to you?"

He simply nodded.

* * *

That evening, Andy carried up Thomas' tray. He was asleep, and Andy gently shook his arm to awaken him. "Mr. Barrow, I brought your dinner, all soft foods you can eat." When there was no response, he shook him harder. "Wake up, Mr. Barrow. I've got your dinner." He began to panic. "Mr. Barrow?" Leaving the tray, the footman rushed back downstairs to raise the alarm.

The doctor was sent for once again, and he joined Mr. Carson, Mrs. Hughes, Miss Baxter, and Andy around the bed. "Shouldn't he be in the hospital?" the housekeeper asked the doctor anxiously.

"There's nothing I could do for him there that you can't do here," Clarkson assured her. "Does he have a family?"

Andy swallowed hard. He knew it was serious if the family was being called in.

"His mother is dead," Miss Baxter informed them. "And his father wouldn't care. They haven't spoken in over twenty years. He has an older sister, but I'm not sure she'd come." The little group stared pityingly down at the man in the bed, all alone in the world.

Mr. Carson turned toward the doctor. "There must be something we can do."

"A cool bath might break his fever. It's worth a try anyway. Between the three of us, I think we can lift him," he replied, indicating the butler and Andy.

Carson looked uncomfortable. "If you think it will help."

"I'll start running the bath," Andy offered.

"Make sure the water is lukewarm rather than cold," the physician instructed. "We don't want to send him into shock."

A short time later, the three men had stripped Thomas of his pajamas and set him in the bathtub. The underbutler stirred slightly upon hitting the tepid water. "You can leave for a while," the doctor told them. "I'll stay to make sure he doesn't slip under the water. We wouldn't want him to drown."

"No, I'll stay with him. I don't mind," Andy volunteered.

"And we can go downstairs for a cup of tea," Carson told the doctor. The two older men filed out while Andy remained, kneeling beside the unconscious servant. He noted that even in Thomas' current state, his pox-ravaged body appeared lithe and powerful. His shoulders and hairy chest were broad and conveyed strength before tapering to a tight waist and narrow hips. His legs were straight and muscular, and Andy thought him very well endowed, not that he'd seen many naked men.

Before coming to Downton, Andy had never met a man of Thomas' sort. He'd only heard about them from his older brothers and the other boys at school. They called them queers and nancy-boys and said they were abominations, something to be despised and jeered at, but Mr. Barrow wasn't an abomination. He was always kind and patient with the new footman, smart and quick with a joke. Andy was happy that they were friends.

After nearly twenty minutes, he was aware that Thomas' eyes were open and he was shivering. The older man had gone very pale. "Mr. Barrow? Can you hear me?" Andy asked hopefully.

"Cold." Thomas' teeth were chattering as he struggled to get up.

Andy snaked a long arm around his back, helping him out of the water. Thomas sat on the side of the bathtub as Andy reached for a towel. The footman proceeded to dry the dripping man before assisting him into his pajamas.

"Andy?" Thomas looked about in confusion before asking weakly, "H-how did I get here?"

The footman offered him a broad smile of relief. "It's a long story. I'll tell you all about it in the morning."


End file.
